


hold my gaze and we'll be fine

by bigstarkenergy



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Eames (Inception), Pining, Post-Inception, arthur is endeared, eames is a little in pain and mostly a little in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22355299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigstarkenergy/pseuds/bigstarkenergy
Summary: "Stay still," Arthur commands from where he's suturing the wound shut. His voice is impervious as always, and Eames would think he wasn't worried at all if not for the way his eyebrows are knitted together, the scowl on his face just a touch more pronounced."Sorry darling," Eames replies, his tone light.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 147
Collections: Eames' Stupid Cupid 2020





	hold my gaze and we'll be fine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BigDaddyBane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigDaddyBane/gifts).



> my prompt was unestablished relationship + hurt/comfort, and while there isn't an extraordinary amount of either hurt or comfort, I hope it's still an enjoyable read!

The rain pours down outside the small wooden house they're in. Eames is lying down the length of a worn couch, wincing in pain every time he breathes in. The stab wound in his side isn't fatal, far from it, but it is bloody painful.

"Stay still," Arthur commands from where he's suturing the wound shut. His voice is impervious as always, and Eames would think he wasn't worried at all if not for the way his eyebrows are knitted together, the scowl on his face just a touch more pronounced.

"Sorry darling," Eames replies, his tone light.

Arthur glances up at him then and frowns even more. As much as Eames does enjoy the sight of Arthur frowning; far more than he should, perhaps, it's a sorry sight. "No need to look so worried, pet. One might start to think you care."

Arthur looks back up at him, his brown eyes dark and furious. "You're an idiot," he spits out, the words too angry to be cold. 

Eames closes his eyes and tilts his head back onto the couch when Arthur pulls the needle through his skin, trying his damnedest not to flinch. "Wasn't entirely my fault," he mumbles, focusing on the feeling of Arthur bleeding warmth beside him rather than the memory of waking up to the mark pushing a knife into his side. 

"You're not an idiot for getting stabbed." 

Eames raises an eyebrow at that. According to Arthur, most situations are generally Eames's fault. To hear him say differently is practically a miracle. "Sorry darling, I don't follow. Is something not my fault for once? Has the apocalypse arrived?"

Arthur moves so that he's hovering over Eames a bit, jaw clenched tight, rainwater dripping from his hair onto Eames's jacket. "If I didn't care," he forces out, his teeth gritted, "I wouldn't fucking be here. I would already be across the border and out of this fucking country."

Eames stares at him for a moment, letting the depth of Arthur's words fully sink in. If he wasn't in such tremendous pain and under the influence of a few high grade painkillers, he'd probably reach a hand up, pull Arthur forward and kiss him. Unfortunately, as it stands, Eames is in no such position to do any of that. 

Instead, he settles for letting the hand that's hanging over the edge of the couch wrap around Arthur's wrist, feeling the steady, reassuring heartbeat there. "Darling," he says, never breaking eye contact, smiling when he feels the slight uptick in Arthur's pulse through the thin skin of his wrist, "When we get out of this bloody country, I'll take you somewhere sunny with copious amounts of wine to make it up to you."

Arthur huffs, and pulls his hand away, but the movement is gentle. "You don't owe me anything," he says instead, focusing on applying a few last bandages and salves to Eames's wound. 

Eames smiles then, feeling grounded in this moment more than he has for the last few years. "Well then, how about we go because I've wanted to take a vacation for quite a while now and I can't imagine anyone else who I'd like to share it with, hm?"

Arthur stares at him after that, a long, piercing look that makes Eames feel like Arthur can see right through him. "Really." Arthur's voice is flat, but there's something in his eyes that Eames knows is hope, slight, but still there nonetheless. "You'd rather go on a vacation with me than anyone else."

Eames nods, trying and mostly succeeding in curbing the grin threatening to overtake his face. "I don't know if you've ever met the majority of dreamshare folk, Arthur, but they're not an exceptionally bright lot."

Arthur smiles then, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "I don't like wine," he says after a few minutes of silence, but his features have softened, and his hands linger when he tucks Eames's jacket back around him.

Eames lets the grin he's been holding back grow, lets himself beam at Arthur, soft and fond. "You can pick the destination, love. I'm not picky."

Arthur nods once, a quiet contemplative sort of movement. Eames becomes acutely aware then of time passing slowly, like the raindrops tracing their way down the windowpane. Despite this, he's sure this is reality, the weight of his poker chip heavy in his hand, the scratched indentations only he knows, the peeling paint. He eventually drifts off, the painkillers and the rain outside lulling him to sleep.

When Eames wakes up, it's still raining, but less fervently, a softer patter against the windows of the house. His side hurts considerably less, and as he gains awareness of his surroundings, he finds that his head has been propped up against something soft and warm. If he's not mistaken, which he doubts he is, his makeshift pillow is Arthur's thigh. 

"Morning," he says, his voice rough from both sleep and exhaustion.

"Evening," Arthur corrects, looking down at him from some newspaper he managed to scrounge up. "You slept for two hours."

Eames nods a little, and shuts his eyes, because the room is spinning, and he doesn't feel like getting up to be sick at the current moment. "Arthur?" he eventually says, basking in the warmth of the blankets piled on top of him and of Arthur's lap beneath him.

"Eames."

"All of that, what I said earlier, that wasn't a dream, was it?"

Arthur shifts slightly, Eames assumes he's looking down at him. He's probably frowning. "Do you want it to be?" Arthur asks, feigning detachment.

Eames snorts a little, and shakes his head. "Of bloody course not. Just checking."

Arthur physically relaxes under him then, which is more than a little gratifying. "Oh."

"Darling?" Eames eventually asks again, after a few minutes of comfortable silence. 

Arthur stops rustling the newspaper, and shifts to look down at him again, Eames presumes. "Yes?"

"I was just curious as to how my head ended up on your lap."

"I put it there," Arthur replies, trying and failing to say the words with enough professional conviction. "There are no pillows. Why, do you mind?"

Eames laughs a little, a soft sound. "Not at all, darling. Not at all."

Arthur nods, and when Eames starts to drift off again, he feels a soft touch against his hair, gently combing through it. He falls asleep dreaming of cobblestones and sunshine, his head in Arthur's lap, the rain falling quietly outside.

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from Maisie Peters's song "Take Care of Yourself" which is lyrical genius and applies to arthur/eames in so many different ways it's almost astonishing.
> 
> God knows that we all get tired, it's a long night when you do it on your own.  
> So cut off a little slack and roll all your cavalry back, my love, take care of yourself.  
> You don't get a medal for the last one awake, so rest your eyes and give your baggage to me.


End file.
